


On the Diplomacy of Demons

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [7]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley finally has to face some emotions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: The V&A is hosting a special exhibition of Leonardo da Vinci's work, and Crowley takes Aziraphale to see it. It turns into a more emotional experience than either of them is expecting. A sequel to "Of Lists, Lazy Days, and Bragging Rights" and "Concerning Mistletoe, Mince Pies, and the Lady of the Lake."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	On the Diplomacy of Demons

When the V&A announced a special exhibit based on the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, it was Aziraphale who first mentioned it after seeing an article in the paper, but it was Crowley who suggested they actually attend.

Aziraphale wasn’t averse to checking on his shop and the wards protecting it (along with a chance to visit some favorite restaurants), so before long they headed north to make a day of it.

The exhibit showcased a number of da Vinci’s works, some regularly housed at the V&A and a few on loan, but the focus this time around was on the great artist’s notebooks, and the many inventions and designs therein. Illustrative models had been made of several examples, some cunningly constructed from balsa wood and paper, others 3-D printed in a nod to modern technology. Some of the architectural models were impressively large.

Aziraphale was pleased enough by the human ingenuity on display, both in the original material and the contemporary framing of it, that he could have spent a pleasant afternoon going from example to example in silent contemplation. However, Crowley almost immediately began to add a running commentary: “Oh, this one, I remember this one. . .” followed by interesting or humorous stories and context. Aziraphale made encouraging noises, and enjoyed listening to Crowley’s reminiscences as much as he enjoyed the displays.

About two-thirds of the way through, he glanced fondly over at Crowley, who was talking and gesturing with enthusiasm, and was surprised to see a single line of moisture tracking down Crowley’s cheek, from behind the ever-concealing dark glasses. Crowley’s voice sounded entirely steady, and he seemed oblivious, but Aziraphale began splitting his attention between the exhibit and Crowley himself, concerned.

A second track of moisture joined the first, but, again Crowley showed no other reaction, so Aziraphale said nothing, but he was forewarned when their circuit of the displays ended at a portrait of the great man himself - grey-bearded and serious, the very image of a Renaissance man – and Crowley cracked open completely.

“That’s – that’s exactly how he looked the -” Crowley’s voice crumbled, and the final words came out softly, in an uneven whisper, “the last time I saw him.” The tears tracking down his face began to flow in earnest, and Aziraphale, who had been expecting something of the sort, gently took his elbow.

“Come, love, let’s sit down.” He guided Crowley, unresisting, to a bench that was free because Aziraphale needed it to be, and helped Crowley sit. Crowley dropped with none of his usual lanky grace, as if he’d been punched and needed to recover. Some of the worst blows a person can take aren’t necessarily physical; Aziraphale was familiar with the feeling. He didn’t have Crowley’s gift for bubbling time, but he could cast a misdirection with the best of them, and he created a quiet, private space for the two of them, other museum visitors drifting past like ghosts, none of them aware of the scene playing out just yards away.

Crowley was genuinely weeping, finally, but his face twisted with as much anger as grief.

“What is _wrong_ with me?” he half-snarled, between heaving breaths. “It’s been five hundred _years_.” He pulled off his dark glasses and wiped his eyes on his sleeve with more force than was necessary.

“Grief never really goes away,” Aziraphale told him gently, producing a handkerchief that Crowley almost refused and then didn’t. “We learn to live with it, but it can still surprise us from time to time.”

“It wasn’t like this even when he died, I’ve never . . . _lost_ it like this . . .”

Aziraphale felt a bit like he’d just been punched, himself. “Not in five hundred years? Love . . . have you never let yourself mourn properly?”

A hiss, one of the giant-snake, steam-engine hisses that never seemed like they should come from Crowley’s human-shaped throat. “Mourn.” The word had a mocking twist on it. “Demons don’t mourn. We aren’t built for it.”

_Oh, love, oh my poor dear._

“ _People_ mourn,” Aziraphale said, still gently, but firmly. “Or they should.”

Crowley didn’t answer, but that meant he also didn’t disagree. Instead, he dug at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and then glared at Aziraphale, golden irises blazing, but red-rimmed and vulnerable.

“Besides, you aren’t a demon now, remember?” Aziraphale added, reaching to gently caress Crowley’s damp cheek. “That’s not,” _an excuse_ , “a problem any more.”

Crowley was shaking, preparing for some new explosion, of sorrow or sorrow-turned-to-anger, and Aziraphale cut him short with an embrace – using, for once, just enough of his strength to make it mandatory. Crowley started to resist, then gave up, and buried his face in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale opened his metaphysical perception, and saw Crowley’s self drawn into a tight, dark, armored knot, wrapped around itself in pain. He wished he could heal that hurt, but knew he could not. So he did the best thing he could, instead, and let himself shine with all the love he could, a beacon in the darkness.

Crowley’s chest heaved, with a silent sob this time, rather than a hiss. Aziraphale gentled his embrace, but Crowley stayed, holding on by his own choice now. After a few minutes, Crowley’s taut muscles began to relax, and the knot of his heart began to loosen, a few tendrils uncoiling to wrap around Aziraphale’s light, warming themselves. When he shifted to pull away, Aziraphale let him.

Crowley sniffed and mopped his face with the handkerchief, then flicked open his dark glasses and put them on. He passed the handkerchief back to Aziraphale, who gave it a shake and then folded it, clean and dry, back into his pocket.

Together, they sat and studied the portrait, its expression of wise gravity captured for as long as paint and gesso could last. The bench and portrait had clearly been aligned to let people sit and contemplate, another clever display choice.

“He noticed I didn’t age,” Crowley said, quietly, “but he only mentioned it once.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked. He slid his hand along the bench in invitation, and Crowley took it – not a tight handclasp, but a loose and companionable twining of fingers.

“Mm. He asked, ‘Anthony, are you an angel sent to inspire me, or a demon sent to distract me from my work with wine and talk?’”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘When I’m with you, I’m just your friend.’” Crowley gave a small laugh that hitched in his chest, and looked at Aziraphale with a glint of mischief.

“And he said,‘Then you must be a demon, because no angel would ever be so diplomatic.’”

That startled a genuine laugh out of Aziraphale. “A wise man indeed.”

“I think he may have met a few angels in his time.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me – I was never assigned to him, but someone of his stature might have attracted a few special envoys.”

Crowley snickered. “He would have taken Gabriel down a few notches, let me tell you. Leo didn’t suffer fools gladly, human or otherwise.”

They sat in companionable silence, while all around them rustled comments and exclamations from the audience discovering - and rediscovering - the works of a singular, brilliant mind.

After a bit, Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Come on, if we want to get some of those chocolate croissants, we’ll have to get a move on. They always sell out before three.”

Even though Crowley was correct, Aziraphale did make a diversion into the shop on the way out (Crowley rolled his eyes, but he was half-smiling as he followed Aziraphale inside), leaving with a small stack of printed matter – including the exhibition’s special book, handsomely hardbound and exceptionally well illustrated.

A few days later, during a quiet evening spent in the warm glow of lamplight, Aziraphale glanced up from his book to see Crowley sprawled on the sofa (not unusual) without his phone (which was unusual). Instead, he was working slowly through the exhibition book, studying each image, reading through the captions and descriptions. Aziraphale could practically see the memories flickering across his face. No raw grief this time, though, just contemplation.

Aziraphale smiled to himself, and turned his page, losing himself again in the flow of words.

**Author's Note:**

> Random comment: Aziraphale absolutely has a subscription to a newspaper's print edition, though I haven't decided which one he'd pick.


End file.
